Making the Man
by Mojave Dragonfly
Summary: Neal admires his Navy uniform, thinking about who he is.


Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with the creation of White Collar

Notes: Written for Unovis, to the prompt, "Neal and a hat." Spoilers for 3.07 and for a tiny bit of Neal's backstory in Forging Bonds. Thank you, Mom, for beta.

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><p>Neal stood before the mirror beside his bed, considering how he looked in Navy service whites. Wearing the right clothes helped him feel the part he had to play, but this was something different, something … mythic.<p>

He smoothed his hands down his sides, bemused by the rigid visual lines tethering the tunic to the trousers, all classical balance; no artistry at all. No fashion designer would envision such unrelieved straightness, unless he were going for a military motif, though the bright contrast might play well on the runway. Even his shoes under the slightly breaking trousers were hospital-white.

The polyester twill beneath his palms had an unaccustomed feel, though Neal assumed it would be durable, and the economy spoke of a kind of mass production that made the wearer part of a crowd. The conformist in the mirror was a stranger. Rather than donning the quality of Naval Officer with the uniform, Neal felt alien to himself. This man was a commander, a leader of men. This man followed rules, colored within the lines, and was actually rewarded for that.

But the real enigma was how the uniform also made the man wearing it a hero. Neal tilted his head to study the effect. This man served his country, even at the risk of his life—he made a career of service and sacrifice. His white gleamed like a paladin, a knight in shining armor. Neal was not this man, and he needed to be.

There was one element missing; the hat. Shaped like a policeman's hat but white with a black brim, the hat sat on his bed, still in protective plastic. Thoughtfully, he pulled off the translucent bag. He ran his fingers over the stiff embroidery-oak leaves and acorns on the dark brim, officer crest and federal shield on the crown. The hat called for a shape of a face beneath it. Neal imagined, not faces of soldiers and sailors, for some reason, but police and firemen. He thought of the firemen who lost their lives on 9/11, and, before he realized the danger, he saw his father's face. He set the hat back down, refusing to do it hastily, and returned to contemplation of the uniform. A Naval uniform; not police.

He turned to the left and to the right, craning his neck to look. Per Jones's instructions, he had shaved more closely than he liked, and the stiff high collar chafed his sensitized bare skin. The shoulder boards with commander's rank on them, while light, were an unfamiliar weight riding his shoulders. He fingered the gold pin above his ribbons—the bow of a large ship dividing curling waves—that declared him a surface warfare officer. It was like heraldry, which, now that he thought of it, was for military men as well, announcing to friend and foe their identity and background. He'd wanted aviator wings, but Jones had flatly refused, covering his mysterious annoyance by insisting that this badge was more realistic, given Neal's intended role. Neal wondered about that—Jones hadn't been an aviator. He'd checked.

His attention dropped to the jelly bean bowl of colors in his rows of ribbons—each ribbon representing a medal. A military medal. Now there was another powerful idea. This officer he was supposed to be had been awarded four rows of medals. Neal knew them all; yes, he agreed with Jones that he shouldn't need the knowledge, but he wanted to know anyway and he had an excellent memory. This man Jones had created had a commendation medal, an achievement medal and a medal for seeing combat. He had a medal for serving in Iraq, and, farther down the rows—and so, according to Jones, of lesser importance—medals for serving at sea, serving overseas, and serving in national defense. Neal was oceans away from objecting to owning something he'd never earned, but for a moment he wondered how it would feel to get a medal he deserved pinned on his chest.

He just didn't feel this role. Playing criminals, even violent ones, if necessary, came to him easily. Playing a hero felt so foreign. Which was kind of sad, when he thought about it. He eyed the hat, picked it up, and with a half-hearted hat trick, flipped it onto his head.

His heart pounded as a younger version of his father looked out of the mirror at him. His father with vivid blue eyes instead of dirty brown. His father, who was no hero, no matter what uniform he wore. Neal latched onto that thought. Gleaming white service dress didn't make anyone anything. He decided right then that Commander Carey may have won service and combat medals, but he was also running a high-priced escort service in the Philippines and an officers-only betting parlor while onboard ship. He instantly felt comfortable with Commander Carey.

He headed for his door, but, even though there was no one to see it, he removed the hat. You don't wear your cover while indoors.


End file.
